Seasons of Fall

The colors of winter hold so much spring.
Today’s sun was born with no spoon and
the heavy clouds rain enough to chase the cat
and dog inside. I read the news about death
and everything forcefully given or taken
because that is all life is. You have to search
for a few good things. I read of Oregon
and its places I have seen through the eyes of Anis.
Outside the pocket of small gods I feel myself
being thrust back at me; here, all that is left
to read is yourself. I have been staring at the pages
wondering how something so beautiful can hold
so much tatteredness and some years isn’t a page.
I remember some of its mouth but no,
we do not need any forgiveness. I wish I knew
where grief came from so I could travel the summer
and lock it before winter because opportunities
come once and again like the cold stares of sadness
falling from the window and even the world
can be a cage if home still holds so much. In my room
are wishes, sometimes I blindly lavish them on myself
and dream the dream the dream of the door because
to feel two feels is upright and fulfilling, and to hold on
to something is holding the hands of expectations,
forgiving and consoling it for not being a mother
but everybody dreams. Everybody dreams
of what is in front of them so they can walk life
a little farther. Because everybody wants to walk
life a little farther. Everybody wants to be
in the black clothes and not the white- searching for light
in the cathedral of their chests with hands stained
with blood untouched. The world needs baptism,
we say, but no one is saying that the world is drowning.

What are you looking for?